


like gold to airy thinness beat

by annundriel



Series: let us melt, and make no noise [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4027624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After more than a year away, Dorian returns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like gold to airy thinness beat

**Author's Note:**

> _Our two souls therefore, which are one,_  
>  Though I must go, endure not yet  
> A breach, but an expansion,  
> Like gold to airy thinness beat.  
> \- "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning," John Donne

The letter comes like all the rest, delivered by raven to Skyhold. The Bull opens it immediately, his back to the worn wood of the tavern wall, and ignores the jibes coming from Krem’s corner. It’s been a year since he’s seen Dorian; of course he’s going to open it immediately.

 _Amatus_ , the letter begins, and the Bull absolutely does grin down at the page, pleased still to see the word written out in Dorian’s smoothly rounded letters. The first time, the letters had been filled with hesitation, ink dotting the page. He could imagine Dorian bent over the parchment, quill in hand, bottom lip worried between his teeth. A frown between his brows. It had begun like any other letter, but ended with that word, Dorian’s signature beneath it.

The Bull had made sure to reward his bravery amply in his reply.

He reads on, letting Dorian’s words wash over him. As with the previous letters, he can practically hear Dorian in the writing, and there’s something about that which makes his chest feel tight. Though maybe that’s just his harness, buckled a little too snug today. (And maybe he should lay off the candied nuts Dorian had sent last time.) But he reads, and imagines Dorian in his rooms in Minrathus. Imagines him fresh from a bath, bent over his desk in nothing but a robe, bare fingers holding the paper steady as he writes. If he brings the paper close to his face, he can _just_ smell Dorian on it.

 _Amazing as it sounds_ , Dorian writes, _I miss the south. I miss Skyhold, with its leaky roofs—have those been repaired yet? Surely they must’ve been—and creaky floorboards. I miss the sound of_ life _there, Bull, is that odd? Tevinter is my home. Or it was my home. I’m not sure anymore, to be honest._

 _Regardless, I look forward to returning. I’ll be leaving soon now, I imagine. If nothing else arises, within the next couple of weeks. Before this letter reaches you, I’ll be on the road, I hope. On the road, being bitten by all manner of insect, terrorized by every wild thing imaginable, and with a sore ass to boot. You’ll have to be_ gentle _with me when you see me again_.

The Bull chuckles, can practically see the accompanying leer and wink. The next few lines are scribbled out, and the Bull frowns at them, wondering what Dorian could possibly think he couldn’t say. And then,

_I miss you, is what I mean. A year is too long, and it will be longer still until I’m back. Next time…well. Next time I’m afraid I’ll just have to hire your services—and those of the Chargers! Nothing funny, Bull (unless you’re into that)—and bring you with. Let them try to say a word of opposition here, I will—_

Another line crossed out.

_You’d make quite the impression here, be quite the hit. With men and women alike. Not that you’d…_

_The thing is_ , he writes.

_The thing is I think about you all the time. I thought…well. I don’t know what I thought. I thought that this would be easy? Easier, anyway. I thought that a year would be nothing, in the grand scheme of things. But I find myself thinking of you at all hours of the day._

The Bull shifts, thinks, _I bet you do_. He thinks about Dorian, too. Every day since he left. It should’ve been easy, really; neither of them are used to…this, whatever this thing between them is. And yet—

_At night especially. I lie awake in a bed that would have been more than adequate previously, but feels too small now. I close my eyes, and I can picture you above me, that smirk you get when you’re about to fuck me. Maker, Bull, I miss the feel of your cock. Can I say that now? Has it been long enough? Fuck, Bull, I—_

“You okay, boss?”

The Bull startles and looks up, letter pressed to his chest, to find Krem standing over him. A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Or do you need some time alone?” He takes a sip from his bottle and saunters off to the table where Harding and Dalish are seated, having a heated discussion about who knows what.

He watches Krem go, and then looks down at the letter again, catches sight of the word _fuck_ , the shake in the tail of the ‘k.’ Maybe privacy would be better for this.

Back in his room, the Bull latches the door behind him, settles on the bed. Only then does he look at Dorian’s letter again.

_Fuck, Bull, I can’t stop thinking about it. The way you feel in my hand, the weight and—I know you’re smiling, you lecherous brute, and with good reason. You and I both know how endowed you are, and how talented you are with that endowment. Do you remember the first time you fucked me? I dreamt about it the other night. The way you opened me up with your fingers first, just one and I was almost full. I keep trying to replicate that, Bull, but my fingers aren’t wide enough. The angle isn’t right._

_But I will bring you the oil I have purchased here. I think you will enjoy it._

_If there is any left._

The Bull groans, free hand slipping to press against his cock through the fabric of his pants—pants he knows Dorian would complain about. Fuck, but he misses Dorian, misses the smell and taste and feel of him. A year is too long. _Six months_ is too long. Next time, he will do what he can to go with. Or drag Dorian along with him. Either way.

 _I’m going to use it later, slick my fingers and think of you. It won’t be enough, but it’ll be something. I’m hard already thinking about it. I’ll stroke my cock first, think of your mouth there instead of my hand, think of you holding me down like you would sometimes, your hands on my hips. Did you know, Bull? It’s like you_ knew. _It’s like you knew everything I liked, even the things I didn’t know about. You made me feel—you_ make _me feel—Maker, I thought this would be easier, with time and distance, without you watching me and seeing everything, but it isn’t._

_I miss you, amatus. I will hurry back, and we will…There are many things we will do, and I will make sure we use our time well._

How do you respond to a letter like that? How can he even begin? Later, maybe, when his head is clear he’ll have the words, the right words, to send Dorian. For now all he has is the remembered sound of Dorian’s voice in his head, the lingering smell of him on the pages. The way he’d groan and laugh and swear at the Bull in Tevene, heels insistent on the Bull’s ass, his thighs, the small of his back, hands grasping at his shoulders.

When his hand wraps around his cock, it’s Dorian’s fingers and palm he imagines, Dorian’s smile he sees behind his eyelids. He cannot wait to see him, cannot wait to kiss and lick and _bite_ , to re-establish that Dorian is his and he is Dorian’s and the next time—the _next time_ —there will be no need to go alone.

If only he’d thought to write the naughty letter first.

*

He’s in the training yard two months later, yelling at Krem to _keep your shield up, for fuck’s sake_ , when he hears the clatter of hooves on the bridge at Skyhold’s entrance. There’s nothing new about this occurrence, it happens all the time, but something makes the Bull’s ears prick, his heart leap. He turns away, looking toward the main gate and—

“Shit, Krem!” He rubs at his forearm, hissing. “That hurt!”

“Not my fault you didn’t keep your shield up, boss.”

Whatever he says next is loss to the sound from the gates. There’s some commotion going on down there, and Bull, well. He doesn’t normally consider himself hopeful, hasn’t ever felt this sort of longing before, but as he sheaths his weapon and heads for the stairs, he’s already calculating hours and days, already trying to measure if it’s too soon, if it’s even possible that Dorian’s here already.

And then he’s standing at the foot of the stairs and there’s a crowd gathered around a group of five horses and at the center of it, at the very center of the commotion, soaking up the attention, is—

He looks—Maker, he looks _good_. Fantastic, even. From behind, the Bull almost didn’t recognize him, but then he turns and that profile is unmistakable no matter what else has changed.

Dorian’s hair is longer; undercut, still, but pulled back in a bun to keep it out of his face. He’d mentioned change in one of his letters, and the Bull had been…not concerned, exactly—after all, Dorian is an adult, capable of his own decisions—but curious, wary. A lot could change in a month, let alone a year.

He watches Dorian now, notices the glint of gold at the upper curve of his ear, another at the lobe.

What else, he wonders, what else is different?

Dorian turns, his mouth pulling into a beaming grin when the Inquisitor steps forward to great him. The Bull can hear him from here, an exclamation of pleasure, and then a swooping hug, bodies pulled close. She clings to him as he laughs in her hair, rapid words of greeting passed between them. She’s happy to see him in one piece; he’s happy to be in one piece. She looks forward to hearing about Tevinter from him face-to-face; he looks forward to telling her. She’s happy he’s back.

He looks around, gaze skimming over the sea of heads to land on the Bull (still on the stairs). He’s happy to be back.

She grins and slaps him on the shoulder, murmurs something that’s too low for the Bull to catch but that must be shocking judging by the way Dorian flushes.

And the Bull, he wants to step forward, wants to greet him. He’s been picturing this moment for the better part of a year. But his feet are glued to the steps, the booming _I’ll be damned!_ arrested in his throat. His chest feels tight, and his heart is doing something that was once unfamiliar but is now apparently a regular occurrence when it comes to Dorian. He wants to go to him, wants to touch his familiar—still familiar, surely it must still be familiar—skin. But all he can do is grin. All he can do is stand on the steps and grin.

Dorian, after a moment, grins back, teeth bright, eyes shining. There are a few more lines at the corners of his eyes, but that smile— _that smile_ —has not changed. A beat, an eternity, and Dorian looks away, grinning down at the ground. When he looks up, his head is tilted, his expression coy. The Bull can’t help but laugh, unabashed happiness bubbling up and out of him.

“Andraste’s tits,” he says, finally moving from the stairs and through the crowd. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Eyebrow raised, Dorian looks the Bull up and down. “I’d say the same for you, but—Vishante kaffas, never mind, it’s _good_ to see you, Bull.”

There’s kohl around his eyes, the Bull can see that now, a light dusting of stubble along his jaw. The gold hoop in his cartilage keeps drawing the Bull’s gaze, as does the hair. As does…everything. Everything is new and old, and all the Bull would like to do is get Dorian alone to see what he’s forgotten, what he remembers. What’s changed.

What hasn’t.

When he’d written back to Dorian’s last letter—after he’d gotten off twice—he’d told him about Skyhold, told him that his bed wasn’t too big— _it’s never too big, kadan_ —but it was too empty. He’s never thought of himself as the sentimental sort, but Dorian makes him feel…he makes him feel…

Well. There’s a reason _kadan_ came so readily to his lips the first time, why it continues to fall so easy now. He won’t admit that it terrifies him, not out loud, but it does.

The smiling isn’t enough, neither is the proximity. The Bull reaches for Dorian, palms open, and pulls him in with a “Come here, you.” Dorian laughs against him, his arms coming up to wrap as well as they can around the Bull. The living, breathing feel of him makes the Bull’s pulse jump.

“The two of you should get a room,” Varric says. “Before you assault my eyes any more than they already have been.”

“The dwarf protests too much,” Dorian says, voice half-mumbled against the Bull’s chest. “Perhaps we should give him a—”

“No,” the Bull says. He doesn’t want to share. He’s been thinking about this reunion for weeks, months. For longer than he cares to admit. The last thing he’s about to do is let anyone else witness it.

Varric and Dorian are staring, though, as if he’s said something unexpected, something out of character. Perhaps he has. He shrugs and slips a proprietary hand to Dorian’s ass. “Unless Varric wants to join us?”

Varric waves him off. “No thanks, Tiny. I think you’ll both have your hands full.” He turns to head up the stairs to the Herald’s Rest. “But I’d be happy to treat Master Pavus to a drink?”

Dorian glances from Varric to the Bull, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a smirk. There’s something almost secretive about it, and the Bull wonders what he might be hiding.

“Thank you, Varric,” he says. “Perhaps later.”

Varric chuckles. “Sure. Now you two go do whatever we’re all pretending you’re _not_ doing.”

“You know you want a piece of this, Varric,” the Bull calls after him, and then Varric is gone and the horses are being stabled by Dennet and Dorian’s entourage is disappearing and it’s just Dorian. Just Dorian, who could never really be _just_ anything, looking up at Bull with an expression both familiar and unfamiliar.

Fuck, it’s been a long time, a long time with only letters and memories, the promise of more. They hadn’t talked about whether they’d instigate anything with other people, whether they’d take the opportunity when it presented itself, but six months in and the Bull—while frustrated—didn’t want anyone’s hands but Dorians on him, anyone’s mouth but Dorian’s kissing him. Anyone’s cock but—well. He’d sat for a long time up on the ramparts chewing that over and over. A long time, until the stars began to appear and Cole sat next to him.

 _You don’t have to worry_ , Cole had said.

 _I’m not worrying, kid_.

 _He feels the same_.

He’d had to sit and chew on that one for a while as well.

Dorian looks up at him now, mouth tilted, and the Bull knows that Cole was right. In more ways than one. Dorian feels the same, and Bull doesn’t have to worry.

“Your room or mine?” Dorian asks, his voice dipping low. A shudder runs through the Bull and he can’t help himself, he reaches out and brushes a thumb against Dorian’s bottom lip. Sighs when Dorian’s tongue flicks out against the pad of it. Dorian looks up at him through his lashes, and the Bull grins, presses his thumb between Dorian’s lips.

It’s hot and wet there. Hot and wet, and the Bull remembers the last time they fucked, the last time that mouth was tight around his cock. When he’d responded to Dorian’s letter, the Bull had written about fucking his face, holding him down and—

“Our room.”

Dorian blinks at him. “I—what?”

The Bull shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be one or the other, kadan.” Maybe he’s wrong; he has a feeling he isn’t. That feeling is proved right when the corners of Dorian’s mouth lift at the endearment. His smile—the Bull remembers that smile—is wide and bright.

“Well then,” Dorian says, fingers pressed to the Bull’s wrist. “Lead on.”

He surprises Dorian, he can tell, when he leads him to what had been Dorian’s room over a year ago. It had been empty for six months when the Bull had moved in, carefully integrating his things—few as they were—with Dorian’s. It had been, he knows, ridiculously sentimental (and hopeful) of him, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Now the room contains Dorian’s books, the few robes he left (tattered, he said, and not fit for Tevinter), his desk and bed and chairs, the rug he swiped off Josephine. It’s his space, as he left it, save for the Bull’s weapons in a chest at the end of the bed, the Bull’s own books (a small collection), belts and harnesses and boots. His extra brace.

The Bull’s proud of the room. It feels like both of them.

He watches from the door, his back against the wood, as Dorian turns in the center of the room, taking it in. He’s different, now, with his long hair and his piercings. There are more subtle differences, too; the way he carries himself, the set of his shoulders and hips, the additional lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. The Bull watches him move to the desk, fingertips running over the worn wood and parchment. He glances over his shoulder at the Bull, and picks up one of the sheets.

“You kept them, I see.”

The Bull nods from his place at the door. “I did.”

Dorian hums, and sets the page down. There’s a flush to his cheeks that wasn’t there before, and the Bull remembers what letter was left at the top. He hadn’t planned it. He hadn’t thought about it. It had simply been the last, and he’d reread it the night before, thought of all the things he’d do when Dorian returned. All the things _they_ would do, and now here Dorian is, so much sooner than the Bull was expecting.

He watches Dorian look around the room, and he can’t help it; he laughs. He laughs with his back against the door and the afternoon sun pouring through the windows. He laughs because he’s here and Dorian’s here and—

Dorian’s raised eyebrow and half-pout only make the Bull laugh harder. His crossed arms make the Bull shake his head.

“Sometimes there is just too much happiness to be contained,” he says, straightening and taking a step forward. “Sometimes…” He shakes his head, reaching for Dorian. The tips of his fingers move across his hair, tucking a stray strand behind Dorian’s ear, the lingering on the ring of gold against his ear. “You’ve changed, kadan.”

Dorian’s pout softens, his weight shifting as he presses into the Bull’s hand. “Not that much.”

Dorian’s look, his face, his eyes, his voice; the Bull leans down, presses his forehead to Dorian’s. He breathes deep, grounding himself in the space between them, heart riotous in his chest. “No,” he says, “perhaps not.”

The mouth on his is as hot and sweet and responsive as the Bull remembers, and Dorian sighs against him, fingers clutching at the Bull’s harness, tugging at him. He tastes like heat and ozone, magic snapping in the air, and the Bull groans, hand sliding to the back of Dorian’s head, his own fingers slipping into Dorian’s hair, loosening it from its bonds. It falls, cool and curling, against the back of his hand, and the Bull pulls at it slightly, chuckling when Dorian groans in return, capturing Bull’s bottom lip between his teeth.

The zing of pain is perfect.

Their kisses are slow at first, delving deep. It is a re-acquaintance as much as anything, the two of them exploring boundaries once again. When the Bull licks at the corner of Dorian’s mouth, Dorian still squirms, chest pushing closer. When he sucks on Dorian’s tongue, Dorian’s fingers still tighten, his tongue still pushes back, asking the Bull for surrender and then demanding it. The Bull had talked once of conquering, out in the Western Approach—he remembers clearly the look Dorian had been giving him prior, the way his eyes had lingered, the curl of his tongue as he’d licked his top lip, the buckles of his robes flashing in the unrelenting sun. He’d had ideas about Dorian at the time, just as Dorian had ideas about him; how things had changed. They’re both conquerors here, giving and taking freely, readily. Begging for it even when they’re mouths are otherwise occupied.

One of Dorian’s hands wraps around his horn, pulling the Bull lower, closer. His mouth is aggressive, the hint of teeth inspired, and the Bull remembers this. He remembers the way Dorian would push and push. How desperate he could be to submit to that. How surprising he found this. How much he’s missed it.

Moaning, he drags Dorian as close to him as possible, opens up. Lets him in.

“Maker,” Dorian sighs, grip shifting on the Bull’s horn. His waist is as thick and perfect in the Bull’s own grasp as it ever was, and the Bull is grateful for this. “Maker,” he repeats. He swallows hard. “I forgot how much I—how good you are at—”

“Yes?” He nuzzles at the side of Dorian’s face, the newly loosed hair tickling his face. He finds an earlobe and sucks it between his lips, then gently between his teeth. Grins and continues nuzzling to Dorian’s neck when Dorian shivers against him. “I’m good at many things, kadan. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Dorian’s fingers flex against him. “Wouldn’t want, uh. Wouldn’t want it to go to your head. Maker knows it’s big enough already.”

The Bull chuckles. “Some things could be bigger.”

The disgusted noise Dorian makes—disgusted, but slightly turned on despite himself—does Bull’s heart good. “You’re incorrigible,” he says, pulling away with a smile that can’t be denied. His hair falls against the sides of his face, brushes his shoulders. The Bull’s heart skips a beat or two, who’s counting?

“You love it,” he says, backing Dorian farther into the room, closer to the bed, and suddenly the word is out there. The big one. The L-one. He’s said it. He pauses.

Dorian pauses as well, lips parted, shining from their kisses. A moment passes, and then another, the Bull’s heart thundering in his ears. And then Dorian’s mouth quirks. “I do,” he says. “Maker help me, I do.”

Heat suffuses through the Bull, starting in his chest and working its way outward. The smile on his face is wide, pulling at his lips. “Well,” he says. “That’s…good. That’s good.”

Dorian laughs, and the Bull wants to feel that sound against him, to taste it on his tongue. He reaches for Dorian, only to be stopped with a hand.

“Only if you’re going to help me with the fastenings,” Dorian says, reaching up to work on the buckle against his shoulder. “It’s been a _very_ long day, and I’m ready to be undressed.”

“I bet you are.” The Bull drops his hands to his sides, takes a step back. He smirks when Dorian’s fingers pause, Dorian looking at him with surprise and then a roll of his eyes. “Oh, I don’t trust myself. This is all you, Dorian. Let me take it in.”

A muttered something Bull doesn’t quite catch but can imagine, and Dorian’s hands are working on the buckles and ties, the intricate series of fastenings he somehow deems necessary. The Bull watches his quick fingers and clever hands, watches them work each one deftly. Before long leather and cloth are falling to the floor in a pile and Dorian is reaching for the hem at his waist, tugging it up and up, tugging it off to reveal solid plains of muscle rippling under smooth skin and then—

“ _Dorian_ ,” the Bull breathes.

The robe comes off, dropping to the floor with the rest. Dorian’s hair falls about his face in a mess that makes the Bull’s palms itch.

“What?” he asks, but there’s a lilt to his voice, a strained sound that belies the word. He knows what. He knows exactly what.

A gold hoop glints at each dusky nipple, and the Bull’s pants tighten, his mouth watering.

Dorian glances down at himself and flushes. When he looks up at the Bull through his lashes, his eyes have gone dark. “Do you like them?” The fingers of his left hand play at the line of his hip before sliding upward, hand flat, to tease at the jewelry. The Bull watches as his nipple hardens, can hear the shuddering breath Dorian takes. The way he bites his lip and then releases it—damp and distracting—is enough to drive anyone mad. “I’d always been curious about them,” he says. “Never brave enough. Funny, isn’t it. I wasn’t brave enough. And then I thought, well why not. You’ve left your homeland, helped defeat a power-hungry magister, and are canoodling with a Qunari. Why not get a few—”

The gasp that rises from him when the Bull’s mouth closes around the other nipple makes the Bull’s cock swell. On his knees in front of Dorian, hands tight on Dorian’s hips, he tastes skin and metal, sweat and gold against his tongue. Dorian grabs at him, body swaying, and hangs onto his horns, the back of his head. He holds the Bull close as though he’s afraid the Bull will leave. Which is ridiculous; doesn’t Dorian know he isn’t going anywhere? Neither of them are. Not anymore. Not without the other.

“Fuck,” the Bull mouths against him. “ _Dorian_ , I—”

Dorian’s answering laugh is breathless and beautiful. “You like them then?”

The Bull kisses across his chest, diverting once to rise up and nip at the ridge of his collarbone, to pay his respects to the other nipple. He shifts on his knees, letting his cock press against Dorian’s leg. “Answer enough for you?” he asks, his hands sliding from Dorian’s hips to the small of his back, then his ass. He grips it, and Dorian huffs above him.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

To hear Dorian like this, again, after so long…The Bull licks at his nipple, gently tugs at the ring of gold with his teeth. Dorian’s hands tighten, the one that falls to his shoulder pulling at the harness there.

“Can we—can we get this off?”

Another lick, a quick tug, and the Bull pulls away, nodding. Yes. Yes, this is a good idea. The _best_ idea. He’d become distracted when Dorian had lost the robe, but can he be blamed? Can he be blamed when faced with this man—this man he’s missed—shirtless and pierced before him?

Despite Dorian’s tugging at the leather against his shoulder and chest, the Bull knows he understands.

Reaching up, the Bull quickly unfastens the strap across his chest and maneuvers out of the harness. It hits the floor with a thud, and Dorian sighs a _finally_ above him as his fingers go to work on the eyepatch. It lands somewhere as well, and then Dorian’s hands are on either side of the Bull’s face, tipping it up, tipping it forward to kiss him thoroughly.

“Maker,” Dorian breathes against his lips. “Amatus. I missed you.”

The Bull holds him close, breathes him in. Revels in the feel of smooth skin and strong muscle beneath his palms, the particular tickle of his moustache against his lips. “And I you.”

He pulls away then, sitting back on his heels, and reaches for Dorian’s boots. He makes quick work of them as Dorian uses him for balance. Once they’re gone, Dorian stands before him bare chest and bare feet, toes wiggling against the carpet. There’s something delicate about them, fine-boned but strong; later the Bull will call for a bath, will let Dorian soak in the fragrant hot water, then lay him out against the sheets as a fire roars in the grate. He will lay him out and rub him down, work out all the kinks of the road while he revisits his favorite landmarks. The plane of Dorian’s back and the dip above his ass, the perfect curve following, the rise of his ankle and the line of his shoulders, the tender skin at the back of each knee; these places will receive their due attention.

Later, though. That is for later; he is too eager to touch Dorian. Let him slake his thirst now, drink his fill later.

Dorian’s hands rest at the fastening of his leggings. He’s hard, the line of his cock obvious through the fabric. The Bull’s mouth waters, his fingers twitching against his own thighs. Against his belly, Dorian’s fingers hesitate. The Bull looks up at him.

“You said I’d changed,” Dorian says. “And I said I hadn’t, but perhaps some change is good?”

Heart in his throat, the Bull nods. “Some, yes. The hair. The nipples.” _This thing between us_. “Change can be good.”

Dorian smirks, looking down, his hair falling around his face. “Good,” he says, and then the fastenings are undone and he’s pushing his leggings down and the Bull’s heart thuds harder with each sliver of revealed skin and there is Dorian’s cock, in all its glory, and at the end of it is a ring of gold glinting as bright as the others in the late afternoon sun.

The Bull doesn’t know what to say. Faced with such a sight, what _can_ he say? Dorian’s cock is hard and curving in front of him, pierced and perfect and—

“It’s uh. Like the others. Something I’ve wanted for quite some time. And you, uh.” He laughs, chagrined, and looks away. “You make me brave.”

The hair, the Bull likes the hair. But it’s going to become a problem if Dorian keeps using it to hide behind.

“Dorian,” he says, rising. His heart is too full. “Kadan.” He does not have the words for the things Dorian makes him; exhilarated, terrified, humbled. Brave. They are both of them fucked, really. The Bull’s okay with that; he thinks Dorian finally is, too.

“Kadan,” he repeats, fingers gentle on Dorian’s chin, the side of his face. “If I’d known you’d return with presents, I would have welcomed you more enthusiastically.”

He gets a punch to the arm for that. “You have time to make it up to me.”

And he does, he has all the time in the world.

Stepping around Dorian, the Bull moves to the bed to sit and remove his brace and boots. He slaps Dorian’s ass on the way, appreciating the yelp he receives.

“You’d better get the rest of that off,” he says, sitting.

“You’d better catch up.”

He works on it, bending to unfasten his brace. Moving to pull it off, he’s stopped by Dorian kneeling naked in front of him. It’s a distracting sight, to say the least; luckily, Dorian seems to know what he’s about, removing the brace and making quick work of the rest.

“Looks like you’ve found where you belong,” the Bull says, drawing his fingers through Dorian’s hair. It’s smooth and silky, curling around his knuckles. The shaved underside is soft against his fingertips.

A quirk of eyebrow. “On my knees?”

The Bull tugs lightly at his hair, and Dorian’s eyelashes flutter. “Between mine.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, but their corners are pleased, his mouth a gentle curve. The sight of it makes the Bull’s throat feel tight.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls Dorian upward, tugging at him until he’s standing between the Bull’s thighs. He kisses him then, kisses the curve of that mouth. Tastes the flick of that tongue. Palms Dorian’s ass and pulls him close. Dorian’s cock curves between them, presses against the Bull’s own—still covered—erection, and they both groan.

“ _Bull_.” His hands pull at Bull, one reaching down between them to stroke him through his pants. “Bull, please, take these monstrosities off. I want—”

“Want what?” he asks, bending his head to lap at a nipple. “I thought I was going to play?”

When Dorian answers, he’s breathless. “Aren’t you already?”

The Bull hums, likes what it does to Dorian. “Depends,” he says, and then he’s pushing Dorian away as Dorian blinks in what is clearly annoyance and, oh, isn’t that a sight he’s missed, Dorian naked and hard and annoyed in front of him. “But I’m nowhere near done. Get on the bed.” Dorian does as he’s told, pausing briefly with one knee on the mattress to wrap his hand around his cock.

The Bull’s own cock throbs, his eyes drawn to the ring of gold at the head. “Go,” he says, and Dorian grins and does, makes himself comfortable in the center of the bed.

“You coming?” he asks, hand at his cock again.

“You will be.” The Bull stands, disrobing quickly. It’s been too long since there’s been another body in his bed. Since there’s been _this_ body in his bed. _Their_ bed. He looks down at Dorian, at his familiar lines and curves, planes and dips, and he aches. Almost doesn’t know where to start. But then Dorian’s hand moves and the light catches the Bull’s eye and of course that’s the start.

He works his way above Dorian, knees on either side of his thighs, his hips. He settles above him, stilling Dorian’s hand with his own. He’d forgotten, almost, how much smaller Dorian’s hands were than his own. Beneath him, Dorian shudders.

“Let me,” the Bull says, and moves Dorian’s hand away. Once it’s gone, he takes his chance to look his fill.

 _Fuck_ , Dorian looks good. From his hair loose and tousled against the pillows to the hard points of his pierced nipples to the curve of his cock and—Slowly, lightly, the Bull drags the back of his finger along the underside, watching precome bead at the tip as he nears the ring of gold pierced through and rising to curve beneath and against the head. He raises his eyes to look at Dorian, watching the way he holds himself still, the way his muscles twitch and sweat begins to glisten at the dip of his throat. He brushes against the jewelry, and Dorian’s breath catches, then leaves him with a sigh.

The Bull grins, slips the tip of a finger between flesh and metal. Tugs gently. Grins harder when Dorian’s hips hitch and he swears in Tevene.

“You like that, kadan?”

It’s impressive how exasperated Dorian sounds when his dick is leaking. “If you have to ask—”

“Did you think of me?” the Bull asks, wrapping his fingers around the shaft, smearing precome over the head. The metal is warm to the touch. He wants to feel it against his tongue, to test the difference between skin and gold. “Did you play with it and think of me?”

“Maker’s—” Dorian groans, raising an arm and hiding behind the bend of his elbow. “Yes. I—fuck, Bull, it was torture. It was—Next time you’re coming with me, or I’m going with you. It was too long, and I—”

“Hey,” he says, lowering his voice. His heart hammers. “Hey, of course. _Of course_. Dorian, _what else would you pierce_?”

Dorian’s laugh is choked, but it’s there, and the look he lowers his arm to give Bull is dark and heated. “You’re an ass,” he says. “I don’t know why I— _oooh fuck_.”

“That’s why.” He lets go of Dorian’s cock and licks his thumb, sighing at the hint of Dorian there, needing more. He shifts back on the bed. “You’ll want to sit up for this.”

After a moment, Dorian’s chest heaves and he moves, pushing himself back and up as the Bull shifts downward until Dorian’s cock is within reach of his mouth. The smell of him is concentrated here, and the Bull breathes deep, holding it within himself for a beat, for two. Three. He nuzzles at Dorian’s thigh, face tucked momentarily in the juncture of his hip, before his mouth trails to the heavy fall of his balls, the thick base of his cock. Beneath his lips, he can feel the rapid pulse of Dorian’s heart, each thud fast and hard. He’s vibrating, practically, and when the Bull looks up the length of his body, Dorian’s eyes are glued to him.

Deliberately, very deliberately, the Bull runs his tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, watching as Dorian eyes snap shut and his mouth falls open. As his head falls back, exposing the tender line of his throat. The Bull tongues at the piercing, tip careful where it meets flesh, explores the demarcation. It’s only when Dorian’s fingers scrabble at him that he raises up, swallows Dorian down.

It’s a new sensation, the metal against his tongue, knocking the roof of his mouth. He’s mindful of his teeth, and he thinks about later—after they’ve done this a few times—and Dorian fucking his face, making him take it. Dorian the one mindful and in control. For now, though, he presses his palms to Dorian’s hips, holding him steady and still as he sucks him down. His throat works around the head as he swallows, and it’s a lot, it’s more than he’s become used to, but the Bull has never shied away from a challenge and what better challenge is there than this? What more perfect incentive than watching, hearing, _feeling_ Dorian lose his mind?

Judging by the way his muscles strain and twitch beneath the Bull’s hands, the way his moaning and sighing has turned to babbling in Tevene and the Common Tongue, the Bull has risen—heh—to the occasion admirably.

“Fasta vass,” he says, breath catching on the fricative in a way that makes goose pimples rise on the Bull’s skin. “Bull. _Bull_. You make me—Festis bei umo canavarum. You—Fuck!” His hips push up, and the Bull pulls back to suck at the head, to play with the piercing with his tongue. “I’m going to—I’m going—”

He comes with a shout, muscles tight, fingers grasping. He comes and comes, and the Bull swallows him down, moaning as he does, greedy for it all, greedy for everything and anything Dorian has to give.

Fuck, he’s missed this, missed the taste, the smell of Dorian, his sense filled with nothing but the two of them. Later, later he will fuck Dorian, lie back and watch as he rides the Bull’s cock. He’ll make him come, feel him clench around him, feel Dorian’s come on his skin. He’ll smell like Dorian then, bear his marks on his skin; the shape of a hand at his shoulder, his side, the shape of a mouth at his neck, at his thigh. He will find himself again and again in Dorian’s mapping, play cartographer himself and lead Dorian home, lead Dorian back to him time and again.

The Bull pulls off with a slick, obscene sound that makes his cock ache. Dorian’s eyes are closed and his chest is rising, falling, rising, sweat shining on his skin, gold shining at his nipples, his spent cock. When the Bull reaches up to tug at one of the rings on his chest, Dorian’s whole body reacts, eyes flying open.

Oh, the possibilities.

Levering himself up, the Bull keeps his place between Dorian’s thighs—his place now, no one else’s—kneeling there. He could take his time, do any number of things to make Dorian hard again, delay his own release. Looking down at him, though, he wants nothing more than to make sure Dorian knows exactly where he belongs.

The Bull’s hand moves to his cock, and Dorian’s gaze follows. He licks his lips, and the Bull can see him swallow.

“Do it,” Dorian says, voice rough. “Bull, please.”

Fingers wrapping around the shaft, the Bull sighs. Grins when Dorian sighs, too. He strokes himself, slowly at first, pausing only to lick his palm before returning. Dorian watches him with hungry eyes, fingertips brushing the Bull’s thighs, and the Bull feels something running through him; wonders if it’s magic, knows it’s just Dorian.

Dorian.

 _Dorian_.

“Amatus,” Dorian says in his sex-hoarse voice, and the Bull’s hand tightens, picks up speed. “Bull,” Dorian says, and he’s coming, he’s coming, stripping Dorian’s skin with his own less elegant adornment.

He sits back on his heels with a groan, hand gently moving, heart slowing. As he watches, Dorian blinks at him, then slides his hand up to the line of come across his belly, the spot near his nipple. There’s some across the one of the rings; the Bull fully intends to lick that off himself. Dorian drags his fingers through before lifting them up, sucking them between his lips.

“Fuck, Dorian.” His grip tightens, and heat pulses through him. “You have no idea what you do to me.” It’s not the word—the L-one—but it’s something. It’s a whole lot of something.

Dorian grins, teeth bright, around his fingers. They shine with spit when he removes them, and the Bull can think of several places he’d like to put them himself.

“I have some idea,” Dorian says. “If you come down here, I’ll show you.”

Hair a mess behind him, gold adorning his body, the Bull’s come smeared on his skin. Dorian returned. Dorian _here_.

It’s not an invitation the Bull can refuse.


End file.
